


Tiny Bubbles

by fictive_frolic



Series: Bucky Barnes One Shots [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Breeding Kink, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21522736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictive_frolic/pseuds/fictive_frolic
Summary: Bucky has settled into domestic life nicely. This is just a tiny snapshot of an evening at home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Bucky Barnes One Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551247
Comments: 6
Kudos: 168





	Tiny Bubbles

When Bucky walked into the back yard, beer in hand after a long day, all he could hear was a glorious cacophony of kids laughing and pop music. It was a glorious, clear, early September day. Just after school. 

He could smell charcoal burning and fresh grass cut. It was home. The only thing that was missing was you. But as he cuddled the three scruffy, sweaty, moppets that ran shrieking and laughing across the grass he saw you. A cold cider in hand laying out fixings for dinner. Salad, Angel food cake, chips… All this after your own long day. 

“Are these your hellions?” he asked, kissing you tenderly and pinching your hip. “The question is, Are they yours?” you tease taking a drink of your cider. He laughed and cuddled you for a second, watching the kids in the yard. 

Three beautiful, kids. Ages 7, 4, and 2. Two girls, his oldest and a little boy. His youngest. Kids and a wife Bucky never thought he would have. A Friday afternoon under endless blue sky. 

Even if he’s tired after a long day. Even if his shoulder aches and his knees hurt. Watching you chase the kids, laughing and hugging them to you while Bucky takes over the grill, he smiles a little. The bubbles floating through the air make it look like a dream. He feels like he’s watching through a bottle of soda pop and christ alive is it pretty. You’re pretty. Hair tied back with a pretty scarf. Paint speckles your hands and chalk is still stuck under your nails. 

The kids sound half-feral. Rambunctious and loud. But this is playtime. And in the Barnes house, play time is sacred. They run wild in the yard. Running, Jumping, Climbing, Screaming. They guess. They test. And then when it doesn’t work they do it again. You didn’t spend the first part of your career doing Art Therapy with troubled kids for nothing. Play is how kids learn, you’d told him. Years ago when he’d come to see you at work and he’d walked in on the most intense game of “The floor is lava” he’d ever seen. Big kids. Thugs and druggies. Angry punks and quietly furious psychos. All leaping on furniture and diving onto rugs while DMX blasted in the background. And you were at the center of it all. Laughing. Just like now. 

He wanted this afternoon to last forever. But as you herded kids to the table, helping him to fix plates and handing him another beer, he couldn’t wait for bedtime. After their tummies were full and they’d had baths and bedtime stories. 

When he had you all to himself for a little bit. The look you give him as you wink at him over your bottle of cider before diving to keep Tommy’s plate on the table as Tilde and Tess decide to switch places, tells him that’s what you were waiting on too. 

When you pull Tommy into your lap, rocking him gently and humming softly as the girls race across the yard. One last burst of energy before the sun sinks too low and Bucky hauls them into the house, one over either shoulder to put them in the tub. Bucky puts his arm around you.

“You did good, kid,” he says fondly, kissing your head. “Hmm?” you ask smiling sleepily. Three bottles of cider and a long day down and you’re comfortably relaxed. “You made some beautiful babies,” he said kissing you softly, savoring the taste of the cider clinging to your lips. “You helped,” you say modestly. Bucky laughs quietly, careful not to wake the toddler dozing against your chest as he strokes curls the same shade as yours. “All I did was make sure you had spicy mustard for your egg rolls and McDonald’s coke,” he chuckles, “You did the hard work.” You snort and kiss his jaw before standing slowly. “I think, Old man, it’s time for you to get your girls. It’s getting to be bed time.” He nods and stretches, “Baths tonight?” he asks. You laugh, “Nah. We’ll just hose them off tomorrow. Nat and Steve are coming over tomorrow for a while… and cold weather’s coming. It’ll be the last weekend they can play in the sprinkler.” Bucky nods, “And leave you and Nat time to drunk bake while Steve and I ride herd on the kids.”

You grin at him and he swats you on the bottom as you pad into the house with Tommy in your arms still. Bucky chases the girls down laughing and carries them into the house and you smile at his deep baritone singing “You are my sunshine” to the giggling little girls on his shoulders. “Mama, I’s not sleepy,” Tommy protests as you help him into his jammies, “I know baby,” you say smiling, “But see, the sun is tired. So we have to go to bed so the sun can sleep.” It’s the same story you’ve told all of them. An appeal to the logic of childhood. And soo far, it’s worked. He’s nodding off even as he protests, so you cuddle a little more, listening to Bucky reading to the girls. 

It’s their routine. Ever since Tilde was just home from the hospital. One of his favorite things. Even when Tess was still in your belly. He loved reading to his girls. His princesses. He read to the girls and you took care of Tommy. The only time he was still was when he was sleepy. And you took full advantage of it. But as Bucky wound the girls down and made sure night lights were on and Monsters were banished, you laid Tommy down and kissed his cheek. 

You could hear Bucky on the stairs, humming to himself and you smile. The music he’s playing on the record player is big band. Something he only did when the demons of his past were at rest. Something he never did until Tilde. You’d come home one day, not long after coming back to work, to find him bouncing her gently, dancing with her. Telling her she was the prettiest thing. That it wasn’t him her first boyfriend was gonna be scared of because her mama was much scarier. You’d cried. Just thinking about it made you want to cry even now as he pulled you against his chest. He smiled, resting his cheek on your hair. You smelled like home. You felt like home. Even after a decade and three kids. The warmth you radiate sinks into his core like it has from the moment your hand brushed his as you reached for the same book at the library. “Bucky?” you ask.

“Yeah, doll face?” he drawls, dipping you back gently. “You still looking for an excuse to add on to the house?” you ask, teasing. He smiles and kisses you softly, “Why, you got an idea?” You smile and press into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, “One or two,” you muse. “Well shit, doll, lay it on me,” he says, smudging sloppy kisses against your jaw as his hands look for the hem of your shirt. “A library might be nice,” you muse, melting into his touch with a soft sigh. He doesn’t so much agree as murmur wordlessly, kissing down your throat. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. After 10 years together he knows which buttons to press like he knows how to clean and load a rifle. Metal fingers graze your belly and you shiver, biting back a giggle. That one spot. He always finds it. Always. Even if he doesn’t mean to. He grins at you and you can’t even pretend to scowl. Yelping quietly as he picks you up to put you on his lap. On the couch. “Shh,” he teases, “You’ll wake the kids.” You snort. Unless it was storming they were all fairly sound sleepers. As long as you stuck to the routine. You straddle him easily, pulling his shirt over his head easily, lavishing kisses of your own on him now that you have his “stuck”. He relaxes into your attentions easily, fingers kneading your hips and bottom lovingly. You were a little wider there after three kids, but Bucky wasn’t complaining. The extra softness was comfortable and, as he murmured in your ear when you fussed about it, “It’s just more cushion for the pushin’, baby doll.” Usually in a tone of voice that made you blush scarlet. But you weren’t fussing today as you reached down to stroke his prick.

“What’s your other idea, kid?” he asked, panting slightly as his head rolls back. You smile, mischief in your eyes, “What about another bedroom?” you ask. Buckys head rolls back up slowly and he cups your face in his hands, eyes widening slightly, “Like a guest room?” he asks. You kiss him slowly and shrug, “Or a nursery,” you tease. Bucky laughs and swats your bottom affectionately, “I dunno kid,” he says smiling, “we’ve got three ragamuffins upstairs. One more might give me a heart attack.” You pout prettily and he kisses your nose, “Oh no,” he pleads playfully, “I can’t say no to that face. Not with you or the kids.” You intensify the puppy dog pout and he finds the waist of your jeans, unbuttoning them slowly. “Do you really want another baby, kid?” he asks, smiling. It’s a stupid question. Of course, you do. You’d grown up in a family of seven. The oldest of seven. Poor as hell but he’d never seen a Christmas happier than when he came home with you to meet them all. “Everyone would have someone to play with then,” you say teasing, making Bucky swat you again playfully. “Hmm, I should have known the baby fever was flaring up again,” he rumbled, sucking a soft mark into your collar bone, “But I think we can cure it.” You gasp softly and he grins, “Best not do it here, though,” he says, “Might really wake them up.” You can’t help it. You giggle as he throws you over his shoulder. His feet are quiet and swift on the stairs, despite your added weight on his shoulder. But now that he has a mission. Now that he has marching orders, he’s going to be a good soldier and get to work. 

Baby Fever is serious business in the Barnes house, almost as serious as playtime and tiny bubbles.


End file.
